The MisAdventures of Cap'n Charisma & the Viper
by Snarkcasm
Summary: Summary suggested by darlingharbour: Wrestlers in spandex is nothing new. So what if capes and masks and superpowers were added? The result is HERE.
1. Prologue

**Author**: Snarkcasm  
><strong>Rating<strong>: Teen  
><strong>Summary<strong>: The (Mis)Adventures of Captain Charisma and The Viper  
><strong>Chapter Summary:<strong> ACTION! And no backstory; suck it! Jay's POV.  
><strong>Warning(s)<strong>: Total and complete crack. Don't ask questions, just read.  
><strong>Disclaimer<strong>: I do not own any rights to the WWE or the wrestlers mentioned in the story. This is a story of fiction and I make no money from it.  
><strong>Author's Note<strong>: I needed a little palate fresher from all the angst in "Room to Breathe". These will probably be one-shots that are semi-related sorta? I didn't know what I was thinking while writing this…and I still don't know now. This is story is just a mash of superhero lore and wrestling. Don't kill me. One-sided(?) Randy/Jay

The (Mis)Adventures of Captain Charisma and The Viper  
><strong>Prologue<strong>: Wherein We are Introduced to the Team, the Author Tries to be Funny (and Fails), and There's a Shit-ton of Dialogue

The streets were scum-filled, rotting from the inside out as corruption bled onto the populace below. On any given day, you could be shanked, robbed, and beaten to death. Your kids could be shanked, robbed, and beaten to death. Your grandma? Oh, you don't want to know what could happen to her. A dirge-like Hopelessness smeared into the sidewalk cracks and potholes like a particularly aggressive jelly that no amount of bleach and elbow grease could dissolve.

It was a grim time for all, especially for the heroes.

"Oh, man! Ew!" A thirtysomething blond with roguishly good looks leapt out of the bathroom like a scalded cat, brown eyes wide and fairly alarmed. This, gentle readers, was the one and only Captain Charisma or to those who could see past the blindingly pi—_manly_ mauve and gold spandex, Jay Reso, leader of the SmackDown Squad by default. Storming past everyone else, he stopped right in front of a mountain of a man brooding near the window. "Are you molting?"

"Can snakes molt?" Ted DiBiase spoke up from where he was trying to drink out of the milk carton without anyone noticing. Jay lifted an eyebrow, and Ted put the milk back with an abashed look in his face. Even though Ted funded the op center/house with his inherited fortunes, there was no way he was going to get into it with Captain Charisma. Especially not when Randy Orton was around. Even now, the former leader of the Legacy was glaring in Ted's direction menacingly.

"Of course they can molt, Idiot. All reptiles molt," hissed the masked man sitting at the kitchen island, hand on his chin and creeper mode activated. Quasi, or Cody Rhodes, was the newest addition to the team and resident whiny pain in Jay's ass. While he appreciated all the reformed Super Villains he had helped find the light, Quasi still broke his arm, and it would be a long time before Jay could forgive the deformed man. Cody started chewing on Jay's pen, and Jay revised his last thought. It would be a long, _long _time before Cody would be forgiven.

"I don't." Bryan Danielson looked up from the gutted remains of a Mac computer. "Wait, do I?" He shot an alarmed look to another masked man who just shrugged and resumed his motionless standing-and-arm-crossing.

"Everyone shut up! The fact of the matter is this—whoever sheds, molts, or what-the-fuck-ever has to clean up after himself. I am your leader, not your maid."

"Sorry, boss," nearly everyone on SDS apologized, except for Sin Cara (who never talked anyway, weirdo) and Cody. Ted elbowed Cody in the gut.

"What they said," Cody grunted, a sour twist to his mouth.

"Awesome. Now that that's done, we have a job to do." Jay lifted up a manila folder and slammed it on a table. There was nothing in the folder; he just liked being dramatic. "Straight from central. Dragon, do we have the comm.?"

"Almost, Boss." The broken computer was fixed in the blink of an eye. Bryan settled back, wiping his brow, and tapped at some keys. Show-off.

A handsome, older man in a cowboy hat popped up on the big screen, smiling widely. "Hey, how's it goin', guys?"

"HBK," Jay greeted his mentor warmly. Both men shared the same superpower and while Shawn Michaels was never the leader of his Squad, he knew the burdens of keeping a team together. "Is that Taker moping over there?" He waggled his fingers at the Deadman's nasty glare and debated on blowing the man a kiss.

A hand on his shoulder had him stopping, and he looked into the demonic eyes of his 2iC, Randy "The Viper" Orton. Jay's face morphed from pleading to insistent, ending with a slight pout at the unflappable, flat stare of his partner. Randy raised an eyebrow and nodded towards the screen. As much as it pained Jay to agree with Randy, it was time to get serious. "What's the news, my man?"

"The town's blowin' up. The NEXUS and the CORRE broke out of prison tonight and are wreaking havoc. The police station has been secured as well as the prisons, but Triple H believes that CM Punk might be going after Mayor McMahon. The Irish Brawler has been trolling the streets with Bait 'n Switch, but there hasn't been any complaints coming in with their M.O.s. Raw Squad has already been sent to clean up the streets after the rioting, but we need you guys to find the NEXUS and CORRE and put them behind bars."

Randy spoke up first. "We're out-numbered, Michaels. Can't we just herd the two groups somewhere and make them fight to the death?"

"_Randy_," Jay said warningly, lacing his voice with just a smidge of Power. He felt a little guilty using his Power against the rehabilitated superhero, but Randy's comment had him thinking that the man was in danger of slipping back into villainy; something that would never happen under Jay's watch if he could help it. Even if he had to use his powers against a teammate. Purposefully ignoring the man's betrayed look, he turned to HBK. "He's right about one thing—we _are_ out-numbered."

"That's why I called in the Calvary. He'll meet you at these coordinates." Michaels bowed out of view and all six members of SmackDown Squad could hear furious whispers. Bryan's wrist communicator bleeped and flashed blue.

"Got it, Boss."

"Good." Jay watched passively as HBK signed off and turned to his assembled team, clapping his hands. "All right. You all heard the man. Suit up and we'll meet back here in twelve—" he calculated how long it took to get into his own suit and nodded, "twelve minutes. I'll figure out a plan of attack somehow." He wasn't the organization's primary tactician, but since Cena had left them to "find himself" or something equally ridiculous, the team would just have to do with Jay's battle plan.

/

Twelve minutes and countless wedgies later, Captain Charisma had situated himself in front of the Titantron, the SmackDown Squad's big screen TV and comm. op center. He adjusted his pale yellow gloves and mask and got down to business, ordering Bryan to throw the city's schematics up on the Titantron and directing his team through his brilliant plan.

"This is stupid," Quasi complained as soon as Jay stopped talking, hitching up his cloak hood and glowering. "I'm serious. We're open for attack if they come up on the west side." He pointed out the major flaw in the leader's plan without remorse.

"We still have one extra member," Viper reminded him, elongated eyeteeth bared and scaled neck muscles bunched. "He can guard the west side, or I can if he's not able."

"And I'll be your eye in the sky, Cap'n," Dragon said earnestly, blue eyes shining under an elaborate dragon-scaled mask. He unfurled magnificent red, white, and blue wings, outstretching them to full wingspan and smacking Quasi in the back of his head.

"Why you—!" Million-Dollar Man II held Quasi back from leaping at the dragon and, more importantly, getting his disfigured ass beat.

Captain Charisma whistled sharply, and everyone stopped, cringing. Viper hissed when it looked like Quasi was going to say something, shutting up the man for good. There was no time for self-doubt; they had dangerous criminals to put away. He put his hands on hips. "We know all their weaknesses and strengths. We've put them in prison the first time, we can do it tonight. All right, Team, let's head out."

Down in the car bay, a motorcycle helmet was tossed his way and, fumbling, he caught it. He didn't even have to look at the coiled viper airbrushed on the side to know who threw it. Futzing with the chin strap, he collected his thoughts, manned up, and said something. "Everything okay?" He refused to say 'with us' because there was a strict no chick-flick moments policy in the SDS.

"Yeah." Viper swung a leg over his motorcycle and kick-started it. Vicious roars thundered through the large bay. "Hop on." Donning his helmet, Captain Charisma did as asked, wrapping his arms tightly around the Viper's midsection.

/

By the time they arrived on the battlefield, Ted and Cody were already fighting Otunga and McGillicutty, Sin Cara had Heath Slater backed into a corner, and Bryan was whizzing through the air locked wing-to-wing with Justin Gabriel. Jay stepped down from the black and red hypercycle, taking off his helmet and assessing the damage. The street looked like it was on-going construction on a hellion-level. Pavement was raked up and over, the street was split in two from a seismic blast or three, trees were straight up uprooted; the buildings that were still standing were emptied due to the rioters; honestly, Jay was never more glad that he didn't have to pay for clean-up or damage than he was now. However, there were more important things to do than sit around wondering who in the hell cleaned up and paid for super-destruction. He had pompous assholes to drag back to prison. There was only one thing stopping him.

"Where's the Calvary?"

"I don't know."

Great. They were down a man and unprotected. "Well, this is some bull—" A heavy weight slammed into him, sending him crashing to the ground. Stars burst behind his eyelids, and all his breath 'woosh'ed out of him. The side of his face was scraped to hell—he could feel blood trickling down his cheek—and he fought to cover his head as punches rained down on his defenseless skull. One solid whack had him seeing Great Aunt Gertrude and all twelve cats.

God, he _hated_ those fucking things.

As soon as the weight was on him, it was ripped off and he scooted away on his back, hands up in preparation for any other blows. He could feel his face swelling up and if there was anything he hated, it was his face being touched. Squinting through impressive shiners-to-be, he saw Randy beating the hell out of Wade Barrett. As soon as he saw blood, he got up and grabbed Randy by the shoulders. Randy lunged at the bloodied mess of an Englishman, almost taking Jay with him.

"No, Randy, no! Stop! He's already knocked out." He didn't want Barrett's death on Randy's conscience. They worked too long to rehabilitate the Viper, and Jay would be damned if this man pushed him over the edge. Jay had to physically put himself between Randy and the fallen man before the Viper stopped going for the kill. Almost instinctively, Jay cupped the back of Randy's head and looked him straight in the eye unflitchingly like the snakemaster taught him. "We good?"

"I'm good, I'm good." Randy's hand came up and brushed at Jay's puffy cheek. "That's going to be an impressive bruise, though." Jay's laugh came out a little weak as he tried not to read into the lingering touches. He had his morals; he was the leader. No matter how often he repeated his mantra, it got weaker every day in Randy's presence. Still, he had to retain a professional distance for both their sakes. He moved away.

"Well, well, well. What do we have here? Captain Charisma and his loyal mutt, Randy "the Viper" Orton. Don't you like what I've done with the place?" Philip Brooks, AKA C.M. Punk, AKA Pain-In-Jay's-Ass, got up from where he was leaning against the lone lit streetlight lamp in the block. He looked good for a man imprisoned for treason—still greasy-sallow with huge bags under his eyes and wannabe-Messianic beard —but there was something sharper, twisted, in his dark eyes. "How's Cena, Randy? The last I heard, he was crying all the way to Massachusetts."

Jay stamped down on the instincts screaming at him to get the hell out of there and braced himself. The Viper didn't have the best patience (or anger management); he had even less for the man that sent his best friend into traction. "You should sue your interior designer, Punk, 'cause he was clearly drunk on the job."

"Ooh, you have some bite, don't you, Captain?" Punk sucked in his lip ring, smirk brittle. He moved forward, and Jay's arm shot out, restraining Randy. "I see how it is. We would have been great together, Jay. We could have ruled this pitiful town, taken back the power together, reversed the status quo, but no, you went and worked for _Them_. You are _Them_. And, that, my friend, is inexcusable."

"What are you going to do? Hate to break it to you, buddy, but our powers negate each other."

Punk's grin turned cryptic. "Viper, _attack your dear, fearless leader_."

Randy's arm looped across Jay's throat, applying enough pressure to be uncomfortable. The blond didn't struggle, cooly grabbing the thick forearm and wrenching it away. He had a hard time believing that controlling Randy was Punk's ace in the hole. Prison really changed a man. "Randy, _stop_!"

But, Randy didn't stop. A little panicked, Jay repeated his command to no avail. Randy wasn't budging, and most importantly, his massive arm wouldn't stop crushing his windpipe. How could this be? His powers _never_failed-not in bar-cruising and definitely not during battles. What the fuck was going on?

"Oh, did I mention—I learned a few tricks during my wrongful imprisonment?"

"Wrongful?" Jay wheezed, vision graying around the edges. Instinctively, he knew he had to keep a crazy person gloating, but he was too focused on trying to breathe again. "You tried to blow up City Hall! Randy, Randy, _**stop it, man. Snap out of it**_!"

"I'm afraid he can't hear you. He's my puppet. I can make your dog do anything I want. Hell, if I wanted to, I could command him to kill you right now, and he'd do it with a smile on his face and a song in his heart."

"You…fucking—"

Punk watched Captain Charisma choke on his own spit with glee and leaned in, tapping the purple-faced man on the nose. "Bastard? Why, yes, I am."

"Swear…to…God…kill me…now, 'cuz…will…kill you."

The brunet 'tsk'-ed mockingly as he waggled his finger in Jay's face. "You think I want to kill you? How banal. It's almost offensive, really. No. I have much, _much _more in store for you, Captain Charisma. Now, nighty-night." He clasped his hands and put them to one cheek, mockingly guileless.

And, then, everything went dark.

**Author's Note 2: **So…yeah, this kinda grew a plot when I wasn't looking, the rat bastard.


	2. Chapter 1

**Author**: Snarkcasm  
><strong>Rating<strong>: Teen  
><strong>Summary<strong>: The (Mis)Adventures of Captain Charisma and The Viper  
><strong>Chapter Summary:<strong> It's been a week and Randy's already gone through an entire month's worth of ammunition at the range.  
><strong>Warning(s)<strong>: So...what once was complete crack has turned into an actual plot. This _sucks_!  
><strong>Disclaimer<strong>: I do not own any rights to the WWE or the wrestlers mentioned in the story. This is a story of fiction and I make no money from it.  
><strong>Author's Note<strong>: It grew a plot! Dammit! Anyway, this is the main story; think of it as comic book 1. I have a few crazy one-shot plot-breakers planned, so stay tuned for the wackiness of fandom. If you want something to happen (I'm talking about gender-swapping, supernatural elements, anything cliche in fandom—go here: http:/ cliche-bingo. livejournal. com / 1136. html for references), don't hesitate to put it in a review. Ta, peeps!

**The (Mis)Adventures of Captain Charisma and The Viper  
><strong>**Chapter One**: Wherein Shit Gets Real, Randy Shouldn't Be Allowed to Have Guns, and The Team is No Closer to Finding Jay

It had been a week since The Incident, and everyone on the SmackDown Squad was walking around on eggshells around Randy. There was no mentioning Jay or efforts to track down the kidnapped leader to or near the Viper; the first and the last time someone brought it up, Randy disabled the keypad to the training room and destroyed all the robots, physically ripping through them like tissue paper and shutting down the AI for the rest of the building.

Then, the letters started coming. Non-descript with no postage, these letters would mysteriously appear in random places inside HQ. They ranged from taunting ("do you know where your leader is?") to downright deranged (a snapshot of a clearly tortured and tied up blond slumped in a chair under a dangling, bare bulb). The snapshot had put Randy in such a murderous rage that he barricaded himself in the shooting range for two days, going through a whole month of ammunition in a matter that alarmed the rest of the group.

Natalya Neidhart threw away her clipboard with a clatter, gritting her teeth. They couldn't _pay_ her enough to keep her here, honestly. Dealing with homicidal maniacs was not in the job description. With a toss of blonde hair, she opened up the one-way mirror to the shooting range and winced at the damage. They ran out of target sheets a few hours back; she didn't know what Randy was shooting at and she was not sticking her nose in it. She wasn't Randy's mommy or psychologist; besides the wasted shots, what he did out of anger and concern was none of her business.

She buzzed her assistant through, ordering him to not give Randy anymore magazines. She might have to break in a new assistant by the end of the day, but it was better than the WWE breathing down her neck for being irresponsible with her department's budget. She settled in as Randy neared the end of his clip, waiting for the shit-storm that was bound to hit.

Almost as an afterthought, she turned on the cameras.

Halfway through the greatest strop in the universe, Bryan Danielson slithered in, hands over his sensitive ears. "How long has this been going on?"

She had an inexplicable soft spot for the dragon, which was the only reason why she wasn't throwing something at him. The forge and weaponry were her domains—everyone on SDS knew that and no one dared to correct the weapons and demolitions expert, ex-mercenary, and legendary Hart. She took in his worn appearance with more pity than she was used to. Simply put, Bryan looked like shit. His wings were faded, his beard looked like he didn't touch a trimmer in decades, and his eyes were constantly red and puffy.

"A while now. Any news?" She fixed him a cup of coffee and pressed it into his hands. It was her own personal gourmet stash that she hoarded with her life, but he looked like he needed it more than she.

His leathery wings slumped. "No. We're trying everything. Sin Cara's been going out every night terrorizing the underground, Ted's using his resources; I even tried contacting the Dragon Council, but they still refuse to interfere with the affairs of Men." Natalya wasn't surprised; Mithradin was a prick, riding high on a power trip ever since he ousted Bryan and cursed him to a partial human form for disagreeing with him a century ago.

If only dragons weren't bullet-proof. Pity that. Bryan flinched; shit, she completely forgot about a dragon's short-range telepathy. '_Puppies and unicorns, puppies and unicorns'_, she thought as hard as she could, making Bryan snort into his coffee. Considering how tense and raw everyone was feeling ever since that asshole kidnapped Jay, she counted making Bryan forget for a while a win in her books.

"Has HQ been in contact? What about the Raw Squad?"

"Everyone is on this one hundred and ten percent. But, the only person who could possibly know what Punk has planned is out of reach and planning on staying that way." Natalya bit down on her lower lip. After all, John Cena wasn't coming back until he felt ready, which didn't bode well for their leader.

A pained roar had her practically jumping out of her skin. "What the fu—?"

"Duck!" Bryan grabbed her, threw her to the floor, and threw himself on top of her just as part of the shooting range flew through the window and scattering shatter-proof glass over the pair.

Shoving the dragon off of her, Natalya grabbed her tranq gun and a dose affectionately labeled 'When the Dumbass 2iC Attacks' from her emergency drawer and steadied herself at the broken window. "This is for your own good, Randy!" With perfect aim, she unloaded the carefully calculated dose of sedatives into one of the few places on the Viper's torso not covered with shimmery, dark copper scales—his pectorals. Chest heaving, the dazed man lunged for the window, slumping over before he could take another step.

"That…was too close for comfort. What was in that dart?"

Natalya looked down the scope; just as she thought, the sight was off by a millimeter. Dammit. "Oh, that old thing? Just a cocktail I perfected when I was an assassin. It's non-lethal, by the way." She caught his worried look with a smirk. "Now pick him up and deliver him to the infirmary. Kidd will fix him right up. I have a shooting range to clean."

She stared at the massive destruction of what was once her immaculate shooting range, hands on her hips. They _definitely_ didn't pay her enough.

/

"And, it has come to our attention that the beloved leader of SmackDown Squad, our very own Captain Charisma, was taken hostage by the criminally insane CM Punk a few days ago during the downtown riots. Sources from WWE have no comment and so far there hasn't been any word from either hero or villain about Captain Charisma's status. We hope that the brave Captain is found safe and unharmed."

"Are you kidding me, Josh? While our taxpayer's money is going towards funding these—these legal hooligans who destroy our streets with their petty vengeance game, you want to waste our viewers' time with this? We wouldn't even _have_ all this violence if these so-called Superstars would just stop parading around with their costumes and freaky, unnatural powers! They don't care about us. They never cared about us! You say that the leader of SmackDown Squad is missing? I say good riddance!"

"Cole! Now I know you and me have our differences, but that right there, that right there was despicable, man. This man, this man right here has saved our lives more than once and that's how you choose to repay him, man? By saying 'good riddance'? Don't you have a heart, man?"

"Booker, I know you're sympathetic to these losers, seeing as you used to be one of them yourself, but…"

The SmackDown Squad (minus an incapacitated Randy Orton) watched the news descend into petty squabbling amongst the three broadcasters, gob-smacked. Bryan had to leave halfway through Michael Cole's rant, sparks of fire shooting dangerously from his fingertips.

"I know I'm new to this whole 'good guy' thing, Ted, but say the word and he'll die."

The stand-in Squad leader stared unblinkingly at the TV screen. "Don't tempt me."

/

"You know why I'm here."

Paul "Triple H" Lévesque shuffled the police reports on his desk. The riots left him and his men with more work than God, and dealing with highly emotional Superstars was not on his high-priority list. "The answer is: no. I'm not going to reinstate you, Copeland."

Adam's jaw tightened and his nostrils flared. "I'm the best tracker you have, perhaps even greater than you yourself, _Hunter_. My best friend is out there, and I want to find him. Now, you can reinstate me, or I'll go rogue and there'll be no guarantee of finding enough of Punk's body to interrogate when I get my hands on him."

"Don't threaten me, Edge. You and I both know you can't go out there anymore; one more attack and you could be paralyzed for life. Now, don't go thinking I care about you, because I don't. I just don't want to have to pay for your stupidity."

"This isn't over, not by a long shot."

"Get out of my office."

/

Jay's head lolled onto his chest. CM Punk's little speech-rant, by his concussion-based estimates, was going on strong at twenty long, uninterrupted minutes. Blah-blah-blah, authority sucks; I'm a whiner, blah-blah-blah. Oh dear merciful Zeus, could someone just kill him? He'd gladly take death if that meant he didn't have to be a sounding board for Punk's idiotic pissing and moaning any longer.

"Hey, hey," he waved his hands weakly, trying to catch Punk's attention. He supposed it looked foolish, seeing as his hands were bound above his head in tight shackles, but these were desperate times. Punk stopped mid-point and glared. "Oh, you can actually shut up? Color me surprised."

Punk's bitch-face was surprisingly effective. "Listen, you little cog-in-the-machine, what I'm doing here—"

"Yeah, that's all well and good, whatever, but while you might have me trussed up like a damn turkey, Phil, that doesn't mean I have to listen to your bitching. Leave it for your therapist. Therapists."

"Oh, you think you're so cute—"

"I don't think, I know."

Punk started to laugh, sending a pricking of dread down Jay's spine. Perhaps taunting a psycho wasn't the greatest plan in the world, but it was all Jay had left. His head rocked to the side from the force of Punk's slap, cutting his cheek on his molars. The bitter tang of blood washed over his taste buds and flooded his mouth. Before he could recover from his shock, his head was wrenched back, throbbing where a few of his hairs were yanked out by the root. Punk's smarmy expression crowded into his vision and on instinct, Jay spat.

Instead of beating his ass (as Jay predicted), Punk just took a step back, wiped the bloody spittle from his chin, and examined him with a blank face. Jay would rather take the beating; at least he'd know what Punk would be thinking. An emotionless Punk was an unpredictable Punk, which—as experience taught Jay—was never a good thing. Punk moved closer, plastering their chests together and pushing a knee between Jay's legs. Just short of digging his nails into the tender flesh, he pressed his hand against the puffy, discolored side of Jay's face and swiped his tongue against Jay's bottom lip.

Jay immediately lashed out, trying his hardest to bite Phil's tongue, lip, nose—any place within reach. However, the other man danced out of the way in wide-eye, huge-grin mania that had Jay's balls forcing their way up into his body. "You know, I love it when you play hard to get, Jay." He moved to cup Jay's jaw, and the Canadian jerked his head away.

"_**Don't touch me, prick**_." He grounded out each word with such venomous power that Phil's smirk completely slipped off his face.

"I've been nice to you so far, but playtime is over, Captain Charisma. McGillicutty, Otunga, put our dear guest in the Chamber until further notice."

Jay was yanked off the chain by one of the behemoths, and before he could complain about his rough treatment, a wad of fabric was pushed into his mouth and tied tightly at the back of his head. He panicked; without his voice, there was no way he could charm these two to let him go. He kicked and punched; scratched and elbowed, but nothing fazed the two brick walls as he was lifted, twisting and turning, off the meat hook and slung over a shoulder like a sack of potatoes. Jay heard, rather than felt, a rib break, the sound of a dry twig snapping hitting him before the white-hot flare of pain did. He crumbled into himself with a wheeze and passed out when the pain got too intense.

Jay came to slowly, which is probably the only reason he didn't start hyperventilating when he found out that he was surrounded by green-colored water. Naturally, when he opened his mouth and bittersweet, gelatinous goop poured into his mouth, he did start hyperventilating, grabbing the fragile breathing tube affixed to his nose in what he would later look back on as the stupidest thing he had done in a while.

"_Calm down_," the mysterious voice echoed throughout the liquid, and Jay's arms instantly settled at his sides. "_Good. Close your eyes." _His eyelids grew heavy and he felt no danger in closing them. "_Your name is Christian Cage. You have a very special power that allows you to control another human being. You use this power for good, protecting the voiceless that exist in this city. You protect them from the ones in command that don't care about them. You work for CM Punk; you are his second in command._"

Jay's brows furrowed as his rebelled against the whispers. He knew these were lies; he knew it in his soul. He was Captain Charisma, he fought for the side of good; he was the leader of the SmackDown Squad. **Your name is Christian Cage. '**_No! My name is Jay Reso. I go by Captain Charisma. My teammates are Randy, Bryan, Ted, Luis, and Cody.' _**You have a very special power that allows you to control another human being. **'_Randy. Bryan. Ted. Luis. Cody'._** You use this power for good, protecting the voiceless that exist in this city.**_ 'Randy._' **You protect them****from the ones '**_Bryan.' _**in command that **'_Ted.' _**don't care about **'_Luis' _**them**_ 'Randy. Bryan. Ted.' _**You work for**_ 'Randy.' _**CM Punk **'_Bryan.' _**You are his**_ Randy_**second**_Randy_**in**_Randy_**command**_._

_**Your name is Christian Cage.**_

'_My name is Christian Cage.'_


	3. Chapter 2

**Author**: Snarkcasm  
><strong>Rating<strong>: Teen  
><strong>Summary<strong>: The (Mis)Adventures of Captain Charisma and The Viper  
><strong>Chapter Summary:<strong> Kofi Kingston, the in-command leader of Raw, stumbled into the kitchen, hoping that the drawer he opened was the 'power outage' drawer and not the 'pointy knives' drawer.  
><strong>Warning(s)<strong>: Total and complete crack with a plot mixed in. Don't ask questions, just read.  
><strong>Disclaimer<strong>: I do not own any rights to the WWE or the wrestlers mentioned in the story. This is a story of fiction and I make no money from it.  
><strong>Author's Note<strong>: Clichés are fun, kids! Also, there are a lot of POVs here. I'm rebelling against 1 story, 1 narrator in a _**big**_ way.

**The (Mis)Adventures of Captain Charisma and The Viper  
><strong>**Chapter Two**: Wherein the Titular Characters Are Mentioned Only in Passing Because The Author Lost a Bet

Kofi Kingston, the in-command leader of Raw, stumbled into the kitchen, hoping that the drawer he opened was the 'power outage' drawer and not the 'pointy knives' drawer. He felt around for a flashlight and flicked it on. The beam landed on the apologetic Evan Bourne.

"I'm sorry," the shorter man said, wringing his hands. "I didn't mean to short out the entire grid."

"It's okay. We're always prepared for it. AJ's probably fixing it as we speak."

Speaking of the devil, the spunky sparkplug herself phased through the door of the refrigerator, electricity running through her eyes and turning them an eerie white edged with light blue. "Hi, guys! I'm almost done with the rewiring. Jeez, they were all fried to a crisp! What in the world happened?" she chirped, in serious contrast to her menacing expression.

"We were watching the news—"

"Say no more. I understand. I'm just glad that no one at SDS has electric-based powers except for me; I'd hate to do another large-scale rewiring." She stepped from the refrigerator with an ease one normally didn't expect from walking through a solid object. Hands out and glowing, she began to walk around until she found what she was clearly looking for, plunged her hand into the drywall, and surged with power. The lights flickered—once, twice—before the generators kicked in and the balance righted itself.

AJ pulled her hands out of the wall and massaged away the sparks crisscrossing across her palms. "I've repaired the wires to the best of my ability, but I'm not sure if that will hold if there's another massive power outage. Just…try not to get upset?"

Kofi put his hands on Evan's shoulders. Ever since John had left them for Massachusetts, the West African man found himself becoming more and more of a big brother to the rest of the squad in a way that was emotionally exhausting at the end of the day. Evan took the news of Jay's disappearance badly but without incidence until tonight's broadcast was hijacked by Punk himself taunting the efforts of the WWE in finding Jay, and for a man that consistently had a smile on his face, it was a little surprising that his anger manifested in a power surge that knocked out half the grid.

"Is there any new news?" Evan asked, voice tinged with desperation.

AJ sighed and shook her head. "Sorry. We have everyone working on it, but there hasn't been any sign of Jay or Punk." She didn't want to say what everyone was thinking: the likelihood of him being found alive after a month grew slimmer by the second. Things were tenser at the SDS tower than ever. HQ forced Randy to step down as Leader when he nearly killed the Irish Brawler for offering to help find Jay.

Ted, not cut out for full-time leadership, was trying his hardest, but he was painfully new and not respected like Jay or feared like Randy. Cody became a bigger asshole in an effort to get people to listen to Ted, which was backfiring marvelously. Natalya and Sin Cara went on a week-long tear through the Underground, targeting both informants and criminals alike and leaving more than enough broken limbs to keep the hospital busy for months, but even they couldn't dig up a scrap of new information. And, Bryan was meditating constantly to keep his cool in check. Truth be told, when she got the message that Evan shorted out the power in the Raw Tower, she leapt at the chance to get the heck out of Dodge.

She smoothed hands down her hair to keep it from frizzing too badly from all the static electricity she generated. "Has Beth contacted you yet?"

Kofi answered this one, gently steering Evan towards the tea kettle. "Not yet. She left us a voicemail saying that she was going after Cena, but that was three days ago. We haven't heard from her since."

"Bummer. I had hoped for _some_ good news to bring back." Wishing them a good night seemed stupid considering that they were talking about Captain Charisma's disappearance, so AJ just gave them a sad wave and vanished.

/

**Voice-mail message from 555-1xxx at 5/20 at 3:30 PM**

"_John, this is Beth. We have a huge crisis on our hands. I'm not sure if you've been listening to the news or not, but Jay's been captured…by CM Punk. We're at our wits' end. I know you're dealing with some issues of your own, but we _need _your help. Call me back. You know my number."_

**Voice-mail message from 555-1xxx at 5/21 at 12:34 PM**

"_John, this is Beth again, calling for the second day in a row. Randy's just been ousted as leader of SDS. He's tearing down the place, literally. We need your help; you're the only one who can talk him out of this. And you're the only one who can play Punk's game. He's asking for you. Call me back."_

**Voice-mail message from 555-1xxx at 5/30 at 8:30 AM**

"_Listen, John. I've tried every possible way to find you. You clearly don't want to be found. I can respect that. However, I can't respect you putting Jay in great danger. When I find you—and believe me, I will—I will take a rusty knife, chop off your balls, and—"_** Inbox Full, please erase messages**

/

Bryan couldn't believe he was doing this as he packed a light overnight pack and strapped it on his shoulders in a way that didn't interfere with his wing joints. This was madness. Yet, he couldn't stand by idly for one more second as his friend battled demons that even the dragon couldn't comprehend. It had been two months, two whole months, since Punk captured Jay, and everyone in the WWE was feeling it. Even the villains were coming to help. It had started with the Celtic Warrior, who was a wiz on the computer and knew more about hacking than Bryan did, and Soundscream was the latest villain to cross over. Everyone thought it was at the behest of her boyfriend, John Morrison, but when asked, she sneered, flipped her glorious locks over one shoulder, and replied that Jay owed her one and him being kidnapped was fucking up all her plans.

Bryan rooted through his bedside table for his contingency envelopes, wincing as he came across Jay's name in his chicken scrawl and putting that away. If Bryan was ever felled in battle, Jay was to be the one who took in Asparagus, Bryan's faithful dog. Chin wobbling with repressed emotion, Bryan left the envelopes on the command center table, addressed to all the active members of SDS, and set out on his impossible, possibly suicidal mission.

His right wing started to cramp halfway over Iowa, but he didn't dare stop. They already wasted so much precious time, and the gruesome thoughts of what his friend might be going through drove him onwards until he was forced to stop in some one-horse town in Utah or crash-plummet to the ground. He was exhausted beyond measure and could barely see straight, but he still had the presence of mind to strap down his wings and put on gloves to hide his talons before staggering into town and into the nearest, albeit rundown, motel.

Sleep meant dreaming. Dreaming meant nightmares. Daniel propped himself up on the headboard and tried to find his peace.

/

"I'm sorry it had to come to this. I really am. After all, you're just trying to do your job, following orders, like any decent person would. Normally, I would respect that. Hard work and ethics and all. But, you see, you're keeping me from my friend, my best friend, and that just. Won't. Do." Adam lifted his largest Bowie knife, 13 3/4 inches with a beautifully carved handle, up to the light and frowned thoughtfully at the dull sheen from the blade. Even though Matilda was dirty, she did the trick and the person he had tied to a chair squirmed with a muffled scream.

He drank in the fear in his victim's eyes. Good. This bastard helped take his friend; may God have mercy on his soul. Gripping the back of the man's head, he wrenched it back and waved his knife calculatingly. "Now, I don't want you screaming, so I'm not going to un-gag you. But that doesn't mean you can't nod. This is how it's going to go: I'm going to ask a question, and you're going to shake your head 'yes' or 'no'." He demonstrated, patronizingly. "Fail to answer my question and…" he trailed off, looking down at Matilda who was nestled snugly by the henchman's jugular. "Do you understand?"

His victim nodded, eyes wide in panic. "Good. Now, do you know who Captain Charisma is?"

A nod.

"And let's recount: you do know who CM Punk is, correct?"

Nod.

"Excellent. See? This isn't so bad. Now, it's time for the more hard-hitting questions. Did you see where CM Punk took the Captain?"

The bound man hesitated before shaking his head 'no'. Edge smirked and screams echoed throughout the dingy warehouse.

/

Justin Gabriel, real name unknown, closed his eyes and wished he could cover his ears. There was only so much screaming he could take. Excusing himself, he left the observation chamber, nerves completely rubbed raw. He brewed a strong cuppa, eyes on the black-and-yellow arm band around his wrist, and never felt more branded in his life.

He was all about freedom. He had been idolized, cast out, loved, hated and everything in-between, but he always had his freedom, his wings. He had joined the NEXUS out of desperation—he was a stranger in a strange land—but he knew now that it wasn't for him. When CM Punk took control, Wade, Heath, he split up to form the CORRE. At the time, it felt right, natural; in the first time in ages, freedom was in sight.

Never did he foresee CORRE joining the NEXUS. Never in a million years. He was back where he started, and it itched like too-tight wool. Maybe Ezekiel was right; maybe they were just using him. Sighing, he spooned in some sugar, and just held the cup in the palm of his hands, hoarse screams still echoing in the back of his mind. This revenge kick of Punk's was ridiculous. People were getting hurt—innocent people. Justin wasn't too far gone down the rabbit hole to see that. But, the question was: what could he do about it? It wasn't as if he could go to Titan Tower and say 'hey, that bloke that's been missin'? I know where he is; lemme show ya where'. He doubted he would live past the first syllable. Never mind what the NEXUS-CORRE collaboration from hell would do to him if they even caught wind he was thinking of deflecting.

He was no hero.

The closest person to a friend ambled up to the fridge, smirk plastered on his sun-kissed face. How the redhead looked so happy after seeing a man undergo not only physical but mental torture, Justin could not understand.

"I think he's about to break," Heath began in his syrupy drawl. "He's really stubborn, that one. I thought we had 'im the first day, but he managed to snap out of it."

Justin grunted noncommittally, staring into his murky tea. It had gone cold and so did Justin's appetite for it. He had a sudden, violent thought of smashing the cup into the redhead's skull, but he stamped down on that quickly, smoothing his features into a neutral but agreeable mask.

"Man, what is _up _with you, Gabe? I normally can't get you to shut the hell up. Did your cricket team lose or something?"

"Football, I don't watch cricket," Justin sneered but latched onto the unexpected opening as if it were a lifeline. "And sort of, Bafana Bafana isn't looking good so far. They've been winning all their matches so far, but the friendly win again Tanzania wasn't all that good. One to zero was just a squeak-by—"Heath's eyes glazed over, and at that point Justin was just making shit up about his beloved football team to keep the redhead in a stupor. Heath wandered away just as Justin was describing a plot to get the South African football team to play in space. Thank goodness, the angelic man was good at bullshitting but not that good.

Michael McGillicutty stormed into the breakroom, a dark, murderous look on his face. Justin plastered himself against the walnut cabinets in an effort to make himself look smaller, but Michael rounded on him immediately. "Can you heal?"

"What? What happened? Who needs my help?"

"Mason Ryan… was found mutilated beyond recognition, dumped right out on our doorstep. He's in our med bay now, fighting for his life. Don't you heal others?"

"Not really." At McGillicutty's glare, Justin amended quickly, "I mean, I can…at great expense to myself. I take in the healing. It's—"

"_I don't care_. You're coming with me." A meaty hand clamped over the delicate bones of his wrist to the point where they grinded together painfully. Justin fought all the way down to the med bay, but McGillicutty was just too strong for the shorter man to wrestle out of his hold.

Justin paled when he landed eyes on the man hooked up to countless machines. Cuts, finely—almost expertly—made, littered every available surface of Ryan's skin, peeking out of rapidly reddening bandages. He was thrown against the cot with a terse command to heal what Justin was being to think was impossible.

Stuck between a rock and a hard place, Justin put his hands down on bare flesh and braced for the crippling rush of pain.

/

This was, pardon his French, a clusterfuck. A Grade A fiasco. Shawn removed his ever-present cowboy hat and ran a hand through thinning hair. As a man prone to hyperbole (but not necessarily sentimentality), he wasn't sure exactly how to rate losing Captain Charisma. He had groomed him to take over SmackDown himself, but more than that he loved the kid like an annoying second cousin twice removed. CM Punk made this feud personal by taking his protégé, and he was going to tear that greasy, malnourished asshole limb from limb.

"Heard from that candy-assed fruity pebble yet?"

"No, Rock." Dwayne "The Rock" Johnson had come back from his movie tour as soon as he heard what was happening at Titan Tower, which was just one more plate the Showstopper had to juggle. He was pulling so many strings behind the curtain that it was surprising he didn't accidentally strangle himself. The Rock was being his usual obtuse self, not exactly highlighting why the hell he came back from his successful, glamorous life. Triple H had his suspicions that the Rock was sniffing after the publicity surrounding the fiasco, and he was unfortunately not above mentioning them loudly and pointedly within earshot of the Rock. If Shawn had to stop one more fight, he was going to sic Taker on the both of them.

"The Rock believes that this John Cena character is a bona fide jabroni. When he shows his rudy poo ass 'round here, the Rock will layeth the SmackDown upon him so hard that his great-great-great-great grandchildren will still feel the—"

"Is he still talking?" Smirk firmly in place, Chris Jericho strutted into the room, passing by the Rock and sprawling over an over-stuffed armchair. His hair was an artful bird nest on top of his head, and this artful laziness transferred from his clothing to his overall personality where even his playful sneer carried a feral, bitter edge.

He was another person Shawn didn't expect to show up, but the rock star took time off of touring the very day he got the message that Jay was missing. Shawn could respect that if not the general bitchiness the other retired Superstar brought to Shawn's fraying patience. The Showstopper smoothly stepped in between the Rock and Y2J. "This isn't the time, guys. We need to focus our efforts on finding Captain Charisma. Y'all can kick each other's asses up and down the street to your hearts' content _later_."

He was just getting started laying into them when the Titantron flashed with an oncoming message. Beth Phoenix's face, unmistakable if not a little grainy, popped up on the screen. She was grinning ear to ear. "Sir, I found him."


	4. Chapter 3

**Author**: Snarkcasm  
><strong>Rating<strong>: Teen  
><strong>Summary<strong>: The (Mis)Adventures of Captain Charisma and The Viper  
><strong>Chapter Summary:<strong>  
><strong>Warning(s)<strong>: Total and complete crack with a plot mixed in. Don't ask questions, just read.  
><strong>Disclaimer<strong>: I do not own any rights to the WWE or the wrestlers mentioned in the story. This is a story of fiction and I make no money from it.  
><strong>Author's Note<strong>: Time to man down the battlements ye hardy. We're going to WAR!

**The (Mis)Adventures of Captain Charisma and The Viper  
><strong>**Chapter Three**: Guess Who's Back…Back Again? This Fic is Back, Tell a Friend.

It didn't take long for Cena to get up to speed. One knock-out-drag-out fight with Orton, and he knew everything—even things the hulking reptile didn't say. Like his gigantic mancrush on Captain Charisma, the damsel in distress himself. Honestly, did the man not know how _hard _he projected? Considering the Viper was half-crazy on his good days, John thought 'probably not' with a wince as he popped his shoulder back into place.

This superhero gig wasn't exactly what the super solider thought it'd be when he signed away his life all those years ago. Grabbing a bottle of water from the communal fridge, he settled down on the couch across from the gigantic screen and channel-surfed restlessly. The Redheaded Stepchild from Hell glared at him from where he was elbow-deep in some computing doohickey or another, and Cena rolled his eyes. Another thing about this superhero gig that confused him—weren't super_ villains_ supposed to be…elsewhere? Who in the hell ran the SmackDown Squad, and why wasn't he in charge?

Ted DiBiase, Billionaire Boy extraordinaire, strode brusquely into the kitchen, gesticulating wildly and talking to himself. John feared even more for the fate of the SDS until Ted turned his head so that his Bluetooth was visible. "No, Quasi. _No_. We don't need any more bad press. Not after…" DiBiase paused, pursing his lips. "Not after Danielson went off the reservation. I know you're trying to do good, but Mike's already running himself ragged—all eleven copies of him—trying to patch up all the leaky holes on our PR ship. And our ship's _still _sinking."

Ted was silent for a moment, a frown furrowing his brow. "I know that was a shitty analogy, Cody, but it ain't like I'm Shakespeare. Now get your ass back to HQ!" Ted ended the conversation by pitching the delicate Bluetooth into the wall and running a hand through his buzz cut.

"Lover's tiff?" Cena inquired, fighting a smirk. Jay had a soft spot for reformed superheroes, but the super solider was…a little traditional in his approach. He couldn't trust any of the SDS any further than he could throw them.

Wait, he could probably throw them pretty far. The point being that he wouldn't trust these baby heroes with the life of his arch nemesis.

Which brought him to why he was wasting his time with the B Squad. CM Punk. The veritable pain in his ass and thorn in his side. He wasted three months of his life soul searching after that punk shook him to his foundation. He refused to waste any more time. Now that the dear ol' Cap'n was in Punk's clutches, the rest of the superhero roster was baying for his blood. That suited Cena just fine, as long as he got to beat the snot out of the sallow-faced little bastard in the end.

Ted crossed over the room, heading straight to the Redheaded Stepchild from Hell. "Celtic, is there any new news?"

The redheaded hacker scratched at his facial hair, the skin around his eyes tight with tension. "Not from where I'm standin'." His brogue was even more incomprehensible as he yawned widely, cracking his jaw. "Punk's got a damn good hacker on 'is side. Breakin' the firewall is like stirrin' my Great Aunt's potato stew—nigh impossible."

"But you can do it, right?"

A light of challenge shone in the Celtic Warrior's green eyes. "I said 'nigh impossible', _not_ impossible, Boy Blunder. I'll crack this son of a bitch if it takes me a week."

"You got three days."

"Better stock up on the whiskey and Irish coffee then," the hacker quipped before diving back into his work, skin washed in a menacing green as his fingers sunk into the hologram images, moving algorithms left and right at rapid speed.

Ted left as hurried as he came in, leaving John alone with the Celtic Warrior once again. The Colonel, having no time or patience to even follow the neon green blurs, sat back, fixated on the TV again. In all the frenzy, the damn channel was stuck on one of those opinionated news shows. Back in his day, news was actual news, not this namby-pamby editorializing bull. How anyone could make up their own damn minds with these monkeys in suits screaming their own from a pulpit, John didn't know. He had his thumb on the channel button when the man started screaming about superheroes.

"Where were the Squads yesterday, huh?" Michael Cole raged. "Probably saving kittens while the citizens of our town—the citizens they're _supposed to be protecting_—were being terrorized!" As much as they all hated Cole, John knew that only by listening to the critics would they be able to grow as a team. He forced himself to listen to Cole's diatribe about the new Baddie—apparently the NEXUS had a new member. No one knew a thing about him, except that he could charm the pants off of anything. The witness reports, as hazy as they were, said he wore an open-necked blouse, tights, and a mask that held back his chin-length hair. Any other identifying features were contradicting; apparently, each eyewitness saw different eye and hair colors.

John snorted; sounded like one of those weirdo vampire freaks the tweens were screaming about these days. God, he sounded so old.

He turned off the TV when Cole started foaming over something else. "Do ya know anything about this, Gingy?"

The Celtic Warrior looked up from his code with a sharp frown. "Can it, Cena. I'm only here because I want to find the Cap'n. That's the only reason. I ain't a snitch. Uncle Fergus was a snitch—"

"Why is everyone so interested in the Cap?" John didn't want to hear about Uncle Fergus or Aunt Millie or whatever bumfuck relatives the Irishman had.

"Jealous, Colonel?" The Warrior's smirk resembled a shark in all its toothiness. "The Cap's a good man, even us villains know that. I mean it helps to know that he used to be a villain himself—"

"_Jay was a super villain?_"

Stephen smirked even wider at the slip up, filing the Captain's real first name for future reference. "Well, yeah. Went by Christian. Edge and him would terrorize the hell out of this city with Rhyno and the rest of the Christian Coalition. Good at what they did, real efficient, yeah? I remember lookin' up to 'im as a wee lad. He had this way with words." His face hardened, and his words took on a bitter edge. "That's all ancient history now that he and Edge are all goody-two-shoes and all that rot."

"How come I…we didn't know about this?"

Warrior shrugged. "Pro'lly did a mind wipe on all ya. The Cap'n's good at that. Well, _Christian _was good at that."

John would never look at Jay the same again, and the horror must have shown on his face because the other man's chuckle was just evil. "You do-gooders and your prejudices. How's the stick?"

"What?"

"Y'know, the one jammed so far up your ars—"

"Gentlemen," Beth Phoenix glided into the comm. room, her cape trailing majestically behind her. Her body language radiated calm; however, the red tendrils of power winding up and down her bare arms suggested differently. "How goes the Hunt?"

"It's going, Princess." She fixed a cool glance his way before gliding towards the communication center and sitting herself down at the main chair. Her blunt fingers, calloused from countless years of swords and hammers, stabbed at the computer keys as she pulled up the newsfeed from the last couple of days.

"Something isn't right. I smell a cat."

John cringed. "A rat, Princess. A rat."

"Does it _matter_ what quadruped I use?" She swore under her breath, her alien tongue harsh and Germanic. She gestured to several crimes with similar MOs with an expectant air. "These powers are similar to Punk's," she snapped after no response from either John or the Celtic Warrior. "Manipulation, witnesses not remembering significant details, barely any use for brute strength—it's the Trickster's way. The coward's way."

"Wait—Punk's doing this?"

"Can't be," Celtic spoke up from behind his huge monitor. "Archives? Building plans? Those aren't Punk's haunts."

"Indeed. And there is no diatribe against the government found anywhere on scene. I suspect there is another person with powers similar to Punk out there."

"But…there's only one other person with his powers, and that's—" John stopped, a dawning realization making him sick to his stomach.

_Oh, fuck_.

/

"Are you positive, Cena?" Shawn took his hat off, absentmindedly wringing the straw brim in a rare display of nervousness. If Cena and Beth had even the slightest proof, then shit was about to hit the fan in a big way. "Listen to me, man, this ain't the time for second-guessin'. I need you to be 100 percent."

Cena and the Amazon princess shared an apprehensive look before Cena nodded, back solider-straight. "We believe it's him, sir. We believe the Captain's behind the recent attacks."

"There's no one else who has his powers on record, Shawn," Beth added. "We checked and double-checked." After a few more 'are you sures?', Shawn ended the vid call, a deep frown between his brows.

Chris Jericho ran a hand through his hair. "It makes no sense. Blueprints, archives? That's not Jay. That's not Jay at all."

"You're right. It's not Jay. It's Christian."

/

_William W. Eames Park_

_Sundown_

_One week from today_

_Be there._

came the missive in an unmarked, unremarkable envelope. This was it—the final showdown.

Anxiety and desperation rippled through the SmackDown Squad in equal measure as the showdown slowly approached. Daniel was still incommunicado, Cody had his foot halfway out the door, Ted was half-frantic trying to hold everything together, and Randy…well, the less said about him the better.

Some of them managed to channel the nervous energy in a positive manner, like Natalya. She took to polishing her guns every day for the upcoming battle. Soundscream, Melina as she insisted everyone call her, practically destroyed the gym with her kinetically-charged Sais as she worked Sin Cara through his paces.

Two more people joined their ragtag bunch during the week, a skittish and scarred Justin Gabriel and an unrepentant Edge who reeked of enough blood and vengeance to give Randy a run for his money. Justin Gabriel didn't say anything about the NEXUS or the CORRE for the first few days, but one session with Edge had him singing like a canary. The angelic man wasn't that high on the totem pole, but his information was valuable and trustworthy according to Edge. Ted didn't question Edge's methods, but he still felt a bit nauseous at the fact they had to resort to torture to get the information from a clearly traumatized—albeit evil douchebag of a—person.

Imagine his surprise when the angel sidled up to the lion-maned hunter during one of the twice-daily briefings, practically in the hardened hunter's lap. At the end of the meeting, Edge had approached the billionaire, a spark of cruel amusement in his eyes as he leaned against the hardwood desk.

"There are more ways to pull information out of a person than pure torture, Boy Blunder. Try not to look like you're having an aneurysm, okay?"

There wasn't enough brain bleach in the world to get rid of that mental image Ted had decided afterwards as he locked himself up in his lab and created three battle drones.

It was two days until the showdown, and no one breathed for fear of setting off Randy's wrath. A manila envelope addressed to Randy in Jay's familiarly girlish handwriting was the first communication the Squad received since the invitation, but everyone understood that Randy needed his space. The Viper denned himself in his room, hissing at anyone who even got close.

AJ was in the kitchen, fixing herself a cup of coffee when a foundation-shaking roar had her jumping. The cup, a light blue one with peeps plastered on its sides, fell to her feet in shards. The lightbulb over her head shattered as well and she covered her head with her arms as she backpedaled out of the warzone the kitchen became. "What was that?" she asked the first person she ran into.

Natalya blew pink strands of hair out of her eyes in impatience. "Randy got some bad news." Calmly, she withdrew a tranq gun from the folds of her lab coat, checked the chamber, and shrugged. "Things are about to get ugly. I suggest you take cover."

AJ whimpered as Natalya strode away.

In the end it had taken three Superstars, five tranqs, and a punch to the face from the Celtic Warrior to subdue the Viper. After checking his pulse to make sure the Superstar was still breathing, Edge pressed play on the DVD still in the player.

A few of the Superstars gasped to see Jay smirking down on them. He looked edgier somehow, more etched in stone than most of the Superstars were used to. His hair was also a darker shade of blonde and a bit longer; his eyes more green than dark hazel. A tick ran along Edge's jaw. This was not good.

"…So, I guess this is it," Jay began, eyes small, mischievous glints on the screen. "Normally, I'm not one for big, flashy showdowns—I'm a simple guy. I prefer classy one-on-one battles. More intimate, wouldn't you agree, Randy? But—" he sighed, throwing up his hands, "it's completely out of my control, isn't that right, Pookie?"

CM Punk sidled up to the screen, slinging an easy yet proprietary arm over Jay's shoulder and pulling him close. "That's right, Snookums." The smile they shared had too many teeth to be considered friendly. Even their endearments were laced with sarcasm. Yet, Edge could tell that history repeated itself as far as they were concerned. He rubbed his temples.

'Jesus, Jay,' he thought, trying to fuel his rising anger into something productive. This wasn't his friend cuddling that bastard on screen. He knew it wasn't. Punk had broken his oldest friend, twisted him into his own evil design in a way that Edge both loathed and couldn't help but admire on a purely professional level.

They carried on with their incredibly inappropriate display glued to each other's side. Phil went on and on in great detail on how he broke Jay away from his Captain Charisma persona and made him better, made him the man he should have been. It was a pompous speech from a d-bag windbag. As far as Edge could tell, there was nothing too terrible to evoke such a response from the Squad's Second-in-Command.

"You're going to fail. Your pathetic, little Squad's going to fail. This city will crash and burn and from the ashes, we will be triumphant." CM Punk turned to the Captain—Christian—with a gleam in his eye. "Is there anything you want to say, Sweet Cheeks?"

Jay's thoughtful moue stretched out into a naughty, lopsided grin. "Randy, Randy, Randy, Randy…I knew. I've always known. You're so pathetic."

Then Jay did something that Adam wished he didn't: he tugged CM Punk down for a kiss.

A clean bullet through the DVD player effectively stopped everything. Natalya, gun in her hands still smoking, straightened up her shoulders. "I'm going to nail that son of a bitch to my wall."

"Get in line," Ted growled, and no one was sure which person he was talking about hurting. His best friend was tranquilized within an inch of his life, and it was both their faults.

AJ wrung her hands, little sparks of electricity jumping along her light mocha skin. "There's something off about the Cap'n." She flushed and the sparks became more pronounced at each 'no shit' look she received for that comment. "Aside from that. His eyes…they looked dead. There was no light."

Edge backed her up, delving into their less-than-pristine past. "Punk brainwashed him to think he was still…well, let's just say that Captain Charisma wasn't always a good guy, okay? Me and him used to rule this place, and quite frankly, if we're going up against him as Christian as we are right now? We don't stand a chance."

"What do we have to do?"

Edge smiled with all his teeth.

/

Bryan Danielson was much more than a man, but even as he was, he had to follow rules. His rules were just a bit different. He touched down, wing joints aching, in North Carolina. Staggering into an alleyway, he pulled out the last of his ancient magicks to glamour himself.

Something vibrated against his leg, and it took the dragon an embarrassingly long time to realize it was his phone. "Hello?"

"Dragon."

"Show?" Why was his handler calling him? He had told Paul where he was going—Big Show was the only person he did tell. "Did something happen? Did you find the Captain?"

"We did…" Great, that meant Bryan could go back! "But, he's been brainwashed."

Shit. "Shit."

"Yeah."

Bryan gripped the phone, wheels turning. "I have an idea."

"It better be quick. They're heading down for a stand-off in a week."

"A week? Plenty of time."

/


End file.
